Dust and Spotlights
by Acestar
Summary: A new series of strange deaths piques the consulting detective's interest; but when the final curtain rises, will he be able to face the music?
1. Prelude

A crowd was starting to form outside of the dingy, worn down building adorned with broken lights and torn posters, sharply echoing the fleeting pursuit of fame and glory that many of the assembling patrons strived for. Only one poster was readable in its entirety; a hand-written piece of A4 pasted at an angle, with a crudely drawn glass and an ambiguous circle attempting to liven it up.

Still, it had worked. The murmuring mass outside the weather-beaten doors were a healthy mix of students, nervous-looking men that seemed unaccustomed to being outside, and suited office workers who'd managed to 'nip out a bit early'. There was little conversation, just the occasional hushed conversation that passed like a small breeze. But there was a sense of thrill in the air, of tense excitement and guilty pleasures. Polite nods passed between the students and the office workers, with the shuffling men giving a fleeting smile as their own form of greeting.

A sharp click made many of them jump, and those nearest the doors scuttled back a few paces. After a few more harsh clicks of rusting metal and stiff bolts, two of the doors opened inwards on squeaky hinges. As one, the crowd moved into an obedient line and started to file through the doors into the semi-darkness within. Once inside, the whispers became more fervent and urgent and the pace quicker. They all ignored the gilded doors that led off to the left and right as the foyer narrowed into an antiquated corridor. All the glitz and glamour of the 30's was heavy with layers of dust and occasion patches of mould, with the procession of hushed people giving the place the feel of a church instead of a place of entertainment.

A further set of gilded doors at the end of the corridor stood open, inviting the crowd into a slightly better lit room. Ancient spotlights cast down weak beams of light on the rows and rows of velveteen seats, all of which had seen better days and were pocked with moth holes and stains of unfathomable origin. Dust motes drifted down from the high ceiling, accompanied from time to time by small flakes of 40-year-old paint. The crowd didn't notice, just carried on filing into the rows and settling themselves on the dangerously worn seats.

A few more minutes of hushed conversation, then the lights faded to darkness. Silence descended but the atmosphere heightened, excitement almost tangible in the air. With a flicker, an old projector brought a new light to the room and whirred its way up to speed. All eyes were now fixed on the yellowed screen and the story that was about to unfold.

Almost two and a half hours later, the room fell into darkness again. This time, it was accompanied by hearty applause and even a warm cheer or two. The whispers of earlier were now clearly audible conversations shared between the students and the men and the office workers with all awkwardness forgotten. They filed out just as they filed in, smiles of satisfaction replacing the nervous smiles of tension. The last small groups and couples rose from their seats and followed out, leaving only one shadowy form sitting alone near the end of the fourth row.

They were still there twenty minutes later when the projectionist climbed down from his booth. He caught sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye and frowned. "Hey," he called loudly, shifting the film canister from one arm to the other. "Show's over, mate. I've got to be locking this place up in a mo." No response. The projectionist sighed at the thought of having to wake up yet another sleeping patron, but he had his own home to go to. "Gonna have to ask you to head on out now, ok?" Even raising the volume prompted no answer. Switching arms with the film canister again, he made his way down the side aisle to the seated man.

"Mate, I said I've got to-"

His yell of fear and surprise was masked by the heavy thud and clang of the metal canister hitting the ground. As the new dust cloud settled, the seated man's sightless eyes stayed fixed on the now empty screen- held wide open by the strange apparatus on his head.


	2. A Bitter Lesson

Sally Donovan let the cordon tape go _just_ as the Freak ducked to pass beneath it. It snapped sharply onto his retreating back and caused him to shoot her a cold stare as he headed towards the building entrance. She allowed herself a smirk in response, giving in to her dislike of the 'consulting detective' for once instead of repressing it behind her sense of duty. It was a small victory. Everyone needs some of those.

Lestrade's message had been as simple yet cryptic as ever.

_Treat for you. The old Electric Cinema, unexplainable. Bring the blogger._

John's face had fallen slightly on reading the last of the message, but Sherlock had already pocketed his phone and was on his way down the stairs to hail a cab before the good doctor had enough time to comment. Nothing was said in the taxi ride across the city, but Sherlock was sure he'd heard a few sulky mutterings from John's direction. A sly smile snuck across the detective's face, but only when he was sure John wasn't looking.

"I think I saw a film at the Electric once," John suddenly piped up. Sherlock merely raised one eyebrow. "When I was in training at St. Barts. Someone found out they were showing _Casablanca_ for free one evening, so we just decided to go. Bit of an odd crowd though. Some real film nuts mixed in with some real right nutters."

"It takes all sorts," Sherlock commented distractedly. John ignored him and continued.  
>"That's going back a bit now though. I bet the place is practically derelict by now, it wasn't in particularly good nick when I was there." Realising that he wasn't going to get any more out of his calculating companion, John tactfully changed the subject. "So, what do you reckon? Someone dumped a body?"<p>

It took a second or two for him to reply. "Lestrade said 'treat'. That suggests something far less mundane and far more..._individual._"

John had a fleeting wave of dread wash over him, but Sherlock stepped in before his fears could leave his throat. "And no. I don't think it's _him_."

Despite feeling relieved, John caught himself wondering if Sherlock was being too sure of himself this time. Moriarty was far from predictable, and seemed to take great pleasure from toying with his opponent as a cat would with a cornered mouse. John wouldn't put it past the man to have invented another brilliantly sinister new way to keep his boredom at bay- and to lure his favourite playmate out of his Baker Street sanctuary. But a sanctuary for how long, John thought warily. If Mycroft and his minions could get in with 'security cameras', then there would be no challenge at all for the enigmatic Irishman.

Perhaps that was why he hadn't done it.

There was no sign of Anderson, much to John's relief. There were many SOCOs and investigating officers that Sherlock seemed to have rubbed up the wrong way over his period of consulting for Lestrade, but none were so caustic as Anderson. It also meant John didn't have to struggle into a coverall over his civilian clothes, for which he was hugely grateful. DI Lestrade was waiting just inside the lobby of the run-down cinema building, but John nearly walked into the back of Sherlock as the man paused for a moment on the threshold of the doorway. The taller man didn't even spare him a glance, but continued on in as if nothing had happened.

"One white male, late twenties, visible trauma but no indication as to how he died." Lestrade didn't bother with the pleasantries any more; they were often ignored by the detective and his work-centric mind. He'd learnt that the straight-up facts were a more efficient way to get the man on his side than any 'hello' or 'evening all' ever would be. He did however send a nod John's way, which was immediately returned. Lestrade still often found himself musing how two such different men could end up living together and 'working' together without tearing each other apart.

"Trauma? Where on the body?" John's doctor side had kicked ink, wondering how the trauma and cause of death could fail to be connected. Lestrade swept one arm to motion down the corridor, then followed as Sherlock strode off in the same direction.

The screen room was now lit by house lights, spotlights and portable halogen lights that the SOCOs had brought with them. Dust still swirled in the beams, allowing the full extent of the dilapidation to be seen. Plaster was missing in large chunks from the walls and ceiling, and much of the decorative plaster work had gone too. The wallpaper that remained was faded and torn in more places than it was whole, and the seats looked like they hadn't been their intended deep red colour for many a year.

"Not the best place to come and see a flick," John commented darkly.

"Oh I don't know," was Sherlock's airy reply. "Depends on the genre. A little added atmosphere, extra interest."

They'd reached the fourth row and the occupant of the second seat from the right. "I think it might have all been a bit _too_ interesting for him," John said softly.

The man was decidedly average- average height, average build, non-descript brown hair and hazel eyes. It was the eyes that Sherlock was taking such an interest in- but not because of their colour.

"John." The single word brought the doctor to his side and within a couple of inches of the dead man's face. The man's eyes were wide open, too wide to be natural. Each eyelid, top and bottom, had receded back so far that it almost disappeared behind the eyeball itself. It was a horrifying sight, and explained why the projectionist who found him had fainted dead away at the sight.

"Some sort of apparatus, worn around the head like a circlet. Something clamp-like forced his eyelids open, possibly something like an eyelash curler that would fit the natural curvature of the socket. " He paused and examined around the man's head and, curiously, behind his ears. "Screwed tightly around his head so he couldn't remove it on his own, and fitted with a set of in-ear headphones so whoever put it there could pump in whatever sounds he wanted."

John and Lestrade glanced at each other before the DI answered. "Some sort of torture device?"

Sherlock shot him a glance that John knew all too well. It was the 'Don't be such an idiot' look, though a more gentle version of his usual, which hinted to John that Lestrade wasn't far off the mark. Lestrade seemed unruffled. "So where is it then?"

Sherlock's gaze was still fixed on the body. "Killer took it with him, obviously. Was there a glass around here?"

Lestrade did a double take. "A glass?" Sherlock whirled round, his coat flaring a little at the sudden motion.

"Yes, drinking glass. Made of glass, not plastic, small, like a tumbler. That's what we need."

John filled in as Lestrade guppied. "Why a glass? What's so important about it?"

There it was, that glint in Sherlock's eye when he knew he'd pipped the Yard to an important piece of evidence. "The glass, or rather the contents within, are what brought this man to his untimely end. Poison, probably an old one such as laudanum. A classic."

Lestrade was already striding away, yelling at a couple of nearby SOCOs to run over the place again in search of the glass. John stared blankly down at the body. "Poisoned with a weird device on his head. Why on earth-"

"I told you, a classic. Kubrick."

John flicked his gaze to the detective. "Kubrick," he nodded a couple of times. Still nothing. "Kubrick?"

"Stanley Kubrick. I'd have thought you'd have seen it yourself."

The pieces were slowly coming together for the doctor. "As in _A Clockwork Orange_ Stanley Kubrick?" Sherlock smiled little, pleased he'd caught on so quickly.

"Exactly. That's what they were here to see." He paused for moment, readying himself for his flawless report and ensuring that Lestrade was ready to be amazed. Sure enough, the DI pocketed his mobile (_Calling back to base_, John assumed) and jogged over. Sherlock took a breath and pulled himself upright- a gesture that John assumed was more subconscious by now than an egotistical effort to look superior.

"The 'trauma' around the eyes was a good hint, but the milk was the clincher. A _homage _to the film they had all come here to see, and one quite neatly done."

Lestrade was still catching up. "Milk?"

Sherlock pointed to the man's mouth. "Faint traces of a blue-white liquid at the corners of the man's lips, no other liquid has quite the same colour and flakiness when it dried on the skin. Also a key feature of the film itself-"

"They socialise in a milk bar," John cut in, realisation dawning. He was now fairly sure he was on the same page as the talented detective for once.

Sherlock rewarded him with a nod of confirmation before continuing. "And the device on his head?" he challenged his companion.

John only had to think for a moment. "It's the one they put on him to make him watch the images, they made him listen to Beethoven."

Sherlock nodded again. "The Ludovico Technique. Drugs to make him nauseous, a film of graphic violence and Beethoven's Ninth. "

"So what you're saying is," Lestrade put in finally. "That someone out there copied the idea in the film while this bloke was _watching_ the film?"

"It appears so," Sherlock replied.

John had only one question left. "How do you know that's the film they were watching?"

"Poster outside."

Lestrade was frowning. "There's not a whole poster left on those billboards, definitely not one less than twenty years old."

Sherlock turned to him with mock disappointment. "Really, Inspector? 'Definitely' is such a finite word for something that, with a little extra looking, turns out to be something infinitely more telling."

Lestrade was past being offended by such remarks. "A poster?" he asked again.

After explaining, Lestrade accompanied them back to the entrance. As Sherlock knew he would, the Inspector's attention immediately fell on the billboard area next to the door.

Sure enough, as Sherlock had promised there would be, there were two small scraps of new-ish looking white paper that formed the rough dimension of a piece of A4 paper. The bottom right corner held two-thirds of a hastily drawn circle that Sherlock had assured them was meant to be an orange, while a single capital letter 'A' was all that was left of the top left corner.

"She would have drawn a glass of milk on there somewhere, probably next to the orange," Sherlock continued, turning up the collar of his coat against the breeze. "Left handed, by the way. The thickness of the lines on the orange are a giveaway."

As John dutifully followed his flatmate back to Sally and the cordon, Lestrade's parting words were two questions. "It was a woman, then?"

"Who wrote the poster, yes," Sherlock called back, not bothering to turn around. "But the killer was male."

"I thought you said poison was a woman's weapon?" The Inspector's voice was fading as they headed back to the main road.

"And I thought your badge said you were a detective," Sherlock called back teasingly. "Detect!"


	3. Entr'Acte 1

As soon as they were seated in a cab, Sherlock produced his phone from his jacket and allowed his long fingers to dance over the keypad. The occasional glance to his right informed him that John was deep in thought; brow furrowing and rising, lips twitching slightly as he worked things through. It was an endearing little idiosyncracy, and one that secretly amused the great consulting detective.

It wasn't long before John's thought processes had run dry, and he returned to open questioning.

"So the killer took the head device...thing... and the glass with him."

"Apparently."

"So does he plan to use them again?"

Finding what he wanted, Sherlock locked the keypad and pocketed the smartphone in one fluid motion. "I doubt it, too conspicuous. Too boring."

John's eyebrows raised. "Boring?"

"Someone who goes to such lengths to replicate something like the Ludovico device and use it at a screening of the film it originates from is clever, _very_ clever. They are also very dedicated to what they do, and would have gotten a thrill out of their success." He paused as John huffed, probably at the inhumanity of it all. "But it would be a cheap thrill, a one-shot of enjoyment. No, he's got other plans."

There was a silence before it registered with the doctor. "You're expecting it to happen again."

"Almost definitely."

"So a new film, a new victim- a new special touch?"

At this, Sherlock stayed quiet. John didn't like it when he did that. It usually led to sinister things.

"You already know, don't you."

It was a statement, not a question. And Sherlock stayed stoically silent. That was as good a confirmation as John needed. "Oh Jesus," he sighed, sinking back into his seat and running one hand down the side of his face. "Have you told Lestrade?"

"No."

"No?" There it was, the anger and disappointment and outrage that Sherlock had been subjected to so many times before. One single word from the former soldier carried such wealth of emotion, but was lost on the stony logic that seemed to make up Sherlock Holmes. "No, you haven't told him. Someone is going to be killed, and you haven't told the proper authorities. Oh but that's you all over, isn't it."

Something had changed. This was real anger, a truly deep rage. But even this outburst of pure feeling barely scratched the surface. Sherlock seemed to have a different kind of morality to everyone else, one that sometimes looked to be a family trait. But Mycroft had chosen (at least, John assumed he had chosen) to be a protector of the British Empire, proving that he had at least some sense of care for the British public. Sherlock's disinterest at the cold fact of an impending murder – a murder that he could easy help avoid- was something that John still couldn't get used to. Every other time, John had been able to push his own feelings aside to help Sherlock do what he said needed to be done. But this was one time too many.

"Driver, stop please."

"John-"

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock." There was finality in his voice that stopped the other man from replying. "Whatever you have worked out in that head of yours, I don't want to know. Playing games with people's lives like this is just-" he trailed off as the cab came to a halt at a corner. "I'm not doing it this time. This time I'm don't want to be your sidekick, your... your _blogger._"

The door had opened and slammed shut before Sherlock could form a suitable response. After a moment, he was aware of the taxi driver looking questioningly at him in the rear view mirror.

"Kingston University," he said levelly. "Knight's Park campus."

**Author's Note:**

_Poor John's had enough this time. While I love how well John and Sherlock work as a team, I absolutely loved how John seems so much more human than Sherlock at times. I wanted to write an example of it, and here it is. _

_Of __**course**__ Sherlock already has it figured out. But can you guess what he was looking up?_

_Apologies for my updates being sporadic- I only write this story during quiet days at work, it seems to be the only time the inspiration strikes me!_


End file.
